


give me my breath back, i hate you.

by brightest_abstraction95



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alec and Parker need Eliot, Angst, F/M, Hurt, Hurt Eliot Spencer, M/M, Multi, Sad Eliot, Unhealthy Relationships, also nameless oc's, but they don't see what they're doing to him, graphic descriptions of eliot fighting, i deal with personal shit through fanfiction, mild dub-con, obliviously manipulative Parker+Alec, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 02:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightest_abstraction95/pseuds/brightest_abstraction95
Summary: He couldn’t blame them, obviously. If anyone else knew what it was like, to feel that shitty, shitty empty feeling and need to feel, to take, to touch, it was him. And who was he to deny them? They’d come to him in need. He could handle it, he could take care of them, that was his job, for fuck’s sake.Despite all of that, he couldn’t help the fact that he started feeling nervous and slimy when he was around them now.





	give me my breath back, i hate you.

Parker was first. She showed up at Eliot’s window in the middle of the night and tapped lightly, just enough to startle him from sleep. He had barely unlatched the window before she was in his arms, knees up almost in his armpits, fists in the thin cotton of his shirt. She was wet from the rain, and when she had kissed him in a flurry of desperate need, she tasted salty enough that he knew she was crying.

He almost returned the kiss, started to out of some subconscious response to her distress, to the vulnerable, heartbreaking abandon in it. Gently, hesitantly, his arms came up and his hands found the small of her back and the back of her head, scooping around the bend of her neck. He pulled back, couldn’t turn his face away fully for fear she would take it as rejection - obviously the last thing she needed right now, whatever was wrong.

Even when her kisses started missing his lips, she kept at it, pressing her mouth against his face, on his chin, his jawline, his cheeks, just above his left eye.

“Parker,” he began. One kiss landed on the side of his nose. One on the brow. One back on the corner of his mouth, and stayed there. “Parker,” He began again. “What’s wrong? What is it? What happened?”

Parker didn’t respond. Instead she let herself down from his arms and hooked her fingers more firmly in his shirt, pulling it up. He put his hands over hers, pushing his shirt back down, trying to grasp her fingers, but she was persistent and slippery.

“Let’s talk about this, Parker.” He said. Somehow she had slipped the shirt over one arm. “Y’ain’t thinking clear, Parker, let’s hold up.” Her hand scuttled over so her grip was on his shirt over his shoulder blades now, and he suddenly felt so tangled in it that he stopped for a moment and let her tug it over his head. It was gone.

She was back on him then, her hands in his hair, her nose in his neck. She flung herself so hard at him that her wet hair slapped against his chest. She was mouthing at his collarbone, wet and sloppy but no teeth.

He had barely started turning his head into her as she sucked his neck, but then her hands were twisting the band of his pants and trying to pull them down. He grabbed her wrists then and pulled them back up more forcefully. Parker’s head snapped up to glare at him, her clear gaze shocking.

“Parker, I can’t do this.” He said, so soft. “What about Hardison?”

There was ice in her glare now. “Do you hate me?” She asked.

“What?” Eliot returned.

“Do you hate me?” She repeated. “Because I need this. And I need you. And if you leave me alone with this,” One of her hands closed into a fist which she knocked hard against the side of her head, “then I’ll know you hate me. I can’t do this alone.” Her expression hadn’t changed but there were heavy tears again, getting caught up in the creases of her skin and rolled down to the tip of her jaw, and on.   
Eliot watched her for a moment. There was a feeling, like something heavy hanging off his rib cage and settling in his stomach. Trying to pull all his bones together until they ground each other into dust. But he reached up and smoothed her hair away from her face. “What can I do, honey?” He asked.

She began pushing him to the bed, and he let her. He could stop wherever this was going before it got too far. Whatever had happened between her and Alec, she was still in a steady current that could carry her to things she would regret. He wouldn’t let that happen.

In the meantime, he followed her lead, climbed backward onto his bed and lay down. “Why don’t we go to the kitchen?” He asked gently. “I’ll make you something warm?” She didn’t respond, except for starting to strip out of her own clothes. “Parker…” He started again.

“Just cold.” She answered, and he fooled himself into believing her. She stopped in a sports bra and a tight pair of dance shorts, both black, and lowered herself directly on top of him. Her body rocked into his, her hair slung over one shoulder, her elbows digging themselves into the sheets on either side of his head.

Her lips were on his neck again, traveling up to his ear. Her movements were less harried now, more purposeful. Maybe, he thought, she was coming back into herself. Maybe the madness would be over soon.

She dug her fingers in his hair and pulled tight. Her fingers scraped against his skull, opening and closing.

“Touch me,” She said, and he dragged his hands up slowly, just flattening them against her shoulder blades. He felt her little puffs of breath against the soft skin of his neck. She went still for a moment, and Eliot allowed himself to sigh.

Then, her hips started moving in little circles, digging into him almost harshly. Immediately he wrapped his arms around her, trapped her arms to her sides, hooked one leg around hers and rolled over. He settled his weight down on her, keeping just enough weight balanced on one hip, painfully aware that he could crush her.

She struggled in his grip at first, writing and shaking. “Let it be,” He whispered again and again. He held tight, even after she stopped moving again and fell quiet. He only knew she started crying when he felt her tears cold upon his chest.

It may have been hours since Parker stopped moving. Eliot had not relaxed his grip at all. Her eyes were closed but she was holding herself so still that he knew she wasn’t sleeping.

It was still dark and raining steadily outside when she whispered, “Let me up.” Her eyes were still closed. He didn’t, until she said again, “Let me up, please.” And then he rolled over.

She stayed still for a beat, and then pushed herself up. She stared down at him for a while, and he forced himself to return it quietly. She reached up finally and pressed her hand to his cheek, running the palm of her flat hand over his rough stubble.

“I love you,” She said. He kept still, except to nod. She leaned over and pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes again. He kept his gaze fixed on her. Gently she tilted her head and kissed him again, barely brushing his lips, before pulling away again. Then she was up, pulling her shirt back on but leaving her still wet pants on his floor, and out the window.

Eliot lay still on his bed until morning.

 

Then it was Hardison. Late one evening, Hardison knocked on Eliot’s door. Eliot was finishing up a late dinner, and padded over, swinging the door open mildly. Hardison looked up, but his eyes focussed on something past Eliot’s head.

“Hey, man.” He began, trying for a smile that looked so sad. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Eliot answered, stepping out of the way. “Yeah, o’course. Come on.”

Hardison shuffled past him.

“Why don’t you go over to the couch?” Eliot asked while he closed and locked the door. “You hungry? I can heat something up for -“ When he turned back around, Hardison was crowding into his personal space. He wrapped his arms around Eliot’s neck and shoulders, and collapsed against him. Eliot froze, and Hardison took a deep, shuddering breath. So Eliot wrapped his arms around Hardison’s middle and held him there.

“What is it, Alec?” He asked into the other man’s shoulder. Hardison shook his head.

“Don’t,” He answered in barely a whisper.

“Ok,” Eliot said calmly. “Ok, that’s ok.” They stood still for another few moments before Hardison seemed to get antsy. He started shifting, opening and closing his fists in his grip on Eliot’s shirt. “Maybe we can move to the couch?” Eliot asked again. This time, Hardison nodded and pulled away. He walked further into Eliot’s apartment and around to the couch, sitting down and rubbing his hands on his thighs.

Eliot tossed the towel that had been over his shoulder into the kitchen before following Hardison and sitting beside him. They sat in silence, because Eliot could tell Hardison didn’t want to talk, and Hardison probably trying to figure out what he was doing here. “You want a beer?” Eliot asked finally, moving to get up and at least get himself one. Suddenly, Hardison surged up at him, grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him in. It was too hard for a kiss when their lips met, and it happened so quickly - obviously before Hardison lost the nerve. By the quick burst of copper in his mouth, Eliot guessed that Hardison had split his lip, just a little. When he finally let Eliot up, he was heaving breaths and staring intently at the other. Eliot sighed, feeling defeated.

“Alec…” He began. “I don’t…” Alec darted forward again, cutting off his words with another (thankfully softer) kiss.

“Please,” Hardison said when he pulled back again. “Eliot, I… need…” To feel worth something, to not feel lost anymore. Goddamn it.

The look on the other man’s face just about broke Eliot’s fucking heart. So he hooked his own hand around the back of Alec’s neck and said, “I know, buddy. I know.” At that, Alec’s face set in a hard, almost angry expression and he dragged Eliot to him with a grip on the front of his shirt.

In between sharp kisses and nips at Eliot’s neck, Hardison said, “Tell me this is ok.”

Eliot let out a wet huff and dragged a hand over his face to make sure he wasn’t actually crying. “I don’t…” He hesitated. How could he not fucking hesitate? What was fucking wrong with this entire world?

“Please, Eliot, don’t make me stop.” Hardison begged, punctuating the plea by dragging his teeth along the top of Eliot’s collar bone. “Don’t make me leave.” This was all so fucking stupid, Eliot thought distantly.

“No, no,” He said. “It’s all good.”

Instantly, Hardison snapped into action, tugging at Eliot’s pants. Eliot’s moment of weary weakness lasted long enough that Hardison was able to make quick work of his loose jeans. He pushed up Eliot’s shirt and started sucking at some place between his navel and the top of his hip bone.

Eliot sucked in his breath as his skin broke out in goosebumps, but honestly he didn’t think that Hardison noticed. The other man was smoothing one hand up and down Eliot’s thigh, and the other hand was shoved into his pants. Eliot looked away.

He listened, purposefully blind, to the scrape of Hardison’s hand against his tight jeans. He felt, still purposefully blind, when Hardison shifted lower and began nuzzling the inside of Eliot’s thigh, biting just a little too harshly for it to be pleasurable against the sensitive skin there. Hardison was still dragging his fingers up and down Eliot’s thigh, then rubbing circles against his skin, then gripping hard.

Eliot listened to Hardison’s breathing get rough, and then to Hardison begin huffing “Ah, hah, hah”, and then to Hardison’s hand speed up inside his pants. Then, Hardison’s body went taut as a bowstring and he bit hard into Eliot’s thigh. Eliot flinched hard in surprise, but Hardison was too far gone to notice.

Hardison finished, looking sweaty and sticky and wrecked. He pressed an absent minded kiss to the places he’d been worrying on the inside of Eliot’s leg, and pushed himself back up Eliot’s body.

 

It happened like this for a while. It was never too often. Sometimes, it was after a particularly harrowing case. Sometimes, it was after a fight between Hardison and Parker. Inevitably, one of them would turn up desperate for touch, for warmth, for help, for comfort, and Eliot would open his strong arms, and bare his sturdy back, and carry them for a while. Then, they would be gone, after they had gotten whatever the hell they had needed from him.

He couldn’t blame them, obviously. If anyone else knew what it was like, to feel that shitty, shitty empty feeling and need to feel, to take, to touch, it was him. And who was he to deny them? They’d come to him in need. He could handle it, he could take care of them, that was his job, for fuck’s sake.

But even so, he couldn’t help feeling the whiplash of it. He couldn’t help feel the difference between his interactions with them in cold, dark moments of the night, and the lack of interactions with them in the relief of morning. Sometimes it made his skin crawl, when he thought about them taking and taking, drawing out his breath in their kisses and never giving it back to him.

This would inevitably cause a downward spiral into overwhelming guilt, because how could he be so selfish? These were his friends, the only family he had in this world, and he couldn’t forget himself for a few hours when they were in need?

Despite everything, he couldn’t help the fact that he started feeling nervous and slimy when he was around them now.

So when Parker and Hardison were together, and they were fine, Eliot felt himself begin to withdraw.

 

Two weeks after Hardison had last come and seen him, leaving him with broad strokes from his fingernails across one shoulder, Eliot took a case on his own. It was a long weekend ordeal, and Eliot only let Sophie know, just in case something came up. She gave him a knowing look that he flatly ignored.

The job he accepted was transportation of cargo for some big shot with dubious morals in Cambodia. Well, maybe less than dubious morals. Eliot didn’t think about it. It sounded dangerous, and he was sold.

He met his employer in a large, dark apartment. The place had a huge sectional sitting in front of a wide screen television that curved, and ten or eleven men meandered through the dark apartment holding beer bottles in their hands. “Mr. Spencer, a pleasure to finally meet you.” His employer was sitting at a long dining room table with chairs set up only along his side, so it looked like a dark, smoky rendition of The Last Supper. The man was fat and balding, what hair he had left dyed a fake, shiny black. “You have one hell of a reputation.”

Eliot tilted his head just slightly, and waited as the man looked him over. He let the man survey the broad expanse of his shoulders, the tight coils of energy in his legs, the way something about him was lethal. The man nodded finally, and Eliot snorted. He heard the scrape of a shoe on the floor behind him and swung his arm out. In doing so, he blocked a punch and returned with vicious strikes of his own: one to the man’s side, just below his rib, one to the nose. Finally, he finished the man off, swinging his side arm full on against the man’s throat as his head was on the back swing from the nose shot. The man, now unable to breathe, fell to his knees, and Eliot turned back to his employer who let out a full belly laugh and applauded.

“That’s what I call fucking efficient,” He crowed.

“I’m no amateur, Mr. Seng. I don’t audition.” Eliot told him, icy. The man nodded.

“Of course. My sincere apologies, Mr. Spenser. I would be honored if you took up this job.”

The job was transporting six medium titanium briefcases across the border into Thailand. Eliot was given ten men, four other empty briefcases, and three days. He was not made privy to what was in the briefcases. Could have been currency, could have been documents, could have been body parts for all he knew. He organized the men under his charge, briefed them on his standard transport protocols, and they headed out.

During the three days there, they stopped moving once. After 32 hours, senses dull and no one is as alert as they need to be.

They had one run in with some thugs two hours after they had entered Thailand (obviously their credentials had thrown some flags that needed taken care of quietly). Eliot counted 8 men, and sent the briefcase carriers on while he stayed behind and went deliciously berserk.

He led their tail into a riverside warehouse with a “Come at me, motherfuckers.” Not many of them spoke english, probably, but some things were universal. He’d made a point to learn how to flip people off in every country, as well. Eliot was nothing if not thorough.

In the warehouse was an exciting supply of potential weapons, if one was creative enough. Eliot picked up a mallet first, bringing it down hard on a man’s shoulder, then throwing it so it smacked another man’s temple.

Still running, he picked up a piece of sheet metal and slung it out. It sliced deep into one man’s side and he went down with a shriek. The sheet metal had sliced open Eliot’s palms and he smiled madly.

His next weapon was a length of chain. Swiping it up, he never slowed as he slid into a 180 degree turn and whipped the chain out so it caught around one man’s neck. Digging into his own momentum, he swung the man caught and gagging around, catching another man and bringing them both down. He wrenched the chain once more, totally incapacitating the man caught in its noose, and then he stepped on the other man, twisting his boot as he threw himself into a kick at the sternum of one other, bringing him to his knees choking on air.

One of the remaining two men threw a knife, which buried itself in Eliot’s thigh as he kicked. He stumbled momentarily and the other remaining man came up and began pummeling his ribs. Eliot looked up at him and gave him a smile that was more like a snarl, tore the knife out of his leg and stabbed him in the neck. He wrenched the blade free once more, pivoting around and throwing it expertly so it landed between the last man’s eyes, sliding in like butter.

Eliot left the bodies, jogging to return to his men.

The rest of the job went smoothly. He was paid (handsomely) and returned to Portland four and a half days later with two bruised ribs, thick bandages around both hands, a stab wound in the thigh, two shirts permanently stained with blood, and a deep sense of catharsis that only came with stringent, cold analysis and furious battle.

Eliot absolutely did not think about how far he had gone, about the feeling of wrenching the last bit of life out of so many of them, of the carnage left in his wake. Instead he focused on pushing the swollen flesh of his hands, and how the pain hitched and then swept back as he got closer to and then farther away from the cuts from the sheet metal, like the coming and going of the tide at sea.

During the latest debriefing for Leverage’s newest case, Hardison gave his bandages a long sideways look, but Eliot didn’t acknowledge it. Sophie and Nate looked like they were pretending to know more about it than they did.

Two weeks later, after his wounds had all but healed, Hardison was back at his door. He hesitated to open it, but open it he did. Hardison didn’t wait this time, either, just crowded forward into his space, took his face between both hands, and kissed him hard.

For just a second, before he pushed the thought deep, deep inside, _I fucking hate you_.

**Author's Note:**

> One more chapter. I want so badly to give Eliot a happy ending - but I don't think that's where this story is going. Sad times ahead, friends.


End file.
